“I saw you yesterday,” she began again, “and I thought of what you had told me, Don Ippolito.” “Yes, I thought of it, too,” answered the priest; “I have thought of it ever since.” “But haven’t you thought of any hope for yourself? Must you still go on as before? How can you go back now to those things, and pretend to think them holy, and all the time have no heart or faith in them? It’s terrible!” “What would you, madamigella?” demanded Don Ippolito, with a moody shrug. “It is my profession, my trade, you know. You might say to the prisoner,” he added bitterly, “‘It is terrible to see you chained here.’ Yes, it is terrible. Oh, I don’t reject your compassion! But what can I do?” “Sit down with me here,” said Florida in her blunt, child-like way, and sank upon the stone seat beside the walk. She clasped her hands together in her lap with some strong, bashful emotion, while Don Ippolito, obeying her command, waited for her to speak. Her voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper when she began. “I don’t know how to begin what I want to say. I am not fit to advise any one. I am so young, and so very ignorant of the world.” “I too know little of the world,” said the priest, as much to himself as to her. “It may be all wrong, all wrong. Besides,” she said abruptly, “how do I know that you are a good man, Don Ippolito? How do I know that you’ve been telling me the truth? It may be all a kind of trap”-- He looked blankly at her. “This is in Venice; and you may be leading me on to say things to you that will make trouble for my mother and me. You may be a spy”-- “Oh no, no, no!” cried the priest, springing to his feet with a kind of moan, and a shudder, “God forbid!” He swiftly touched her hand with the tips of his fingers, and then kissed them: an action of inexpressible humility. “Madamigella, I swear to you by everything you believe good that I would rather die than be false to you in a single breath or thought.” “Oh, I know it, I know it,” she murmured. “I don’t see how I could say such a cruel thing.” “Not cruel; no, madamigella, not cruel,” softly pleaded Don Ippolito. “But--but is there _no_ escape for you?” They looked steadfastly at each other for a moment, and then Don Ippolito spoke. “Yes,” he said very gravely, “there is one way of escape. I have often thought of it, and once I thought I had taken the first step towards it; but it is beset with many great obstacles, and to be a priest makes one timid and insecure.” He lapsed into his musing melancholy with the last words; but she would not suffer him to lose whatever heart he had begun to speak with. “That’s nothing,” she said, “you must think again of that way of escape, and never turn from it till you have tried it. Only take the first step and you can go on. Friends will rise up everywhere, and make it easy for you. Come,” she implored him fervently, “you must promise.” He bent his dreamy eyes upon her.